(THE FOLLOWING MONTH)
The Kingdom of Yainna was alive with celebration.
Banners of black and gold fluttered in the wind, the sigil of House Drale—a serpent coiled around a sword—displayed proudly above the castle gates. The streets were filled with cheering citizens, merchants selling spiced meats and honeyed wine, and minstrels playing lively tunes as people danced in the open squares.
It was a day of victory.
King Derek Drale had ordered this tournament in honor of General Kluzxe's triumph over the Rebels of the Western Reach—men who had refused to accept a woman as the future ruler of Yainna. These rebels had plotted to overthrow the Drale Dynasty, hoping to install one of their own on the throne. But their efforts had been crushed, and now, the kingdom celebrated.
Seven-year-old Thalia Drale knew little of politics or rebellion.
All she knew was that today, she sat in a special viewing box at the edge of the arena, watching men fight for glory.
Beside her, William Kluzxe, son of the victorious general, was tearing into a turkey leg, completely indifferent to the bloodshed below. His cheeks were smeared with grease, and he leaned back lazily, not even looking at the fight.
But Thalia?
She could not take her eyes off it.
The sun was high, casting long shadows over the sand-covered battleground. The air smelled of sweat, steel, and blood, and the roars of the crowd made the ground tremble beneath her feet.
In the arena, two warriors stood ready.
One was a towering brute, his bare chest covered in old scars. He carried a heavy battle-axe, its edge glinting dangerously in the sunlight. His opponent was leaner, faster, dressed in light armor, gripping a longsword with both hands.
A horn sounded.
The fight began.
The axe-wielder lunged first, his muscles straining as he swung his weapon in a deadly arc. The swordsman dodged, rolling to the side just as the axe slammed into the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Thalia gripped the edge of her seat.
The swordsman didn't hesitate—he slashed low, cutting across the brute's thigh. Blood sprayed, dark against the golden sand, but the larger man only growled and raised his axe again.
The next blow came fast and brutal.
The swordsman barely blocked it, his blade shuddering under the force. He was pushed back, his boots digging into the dirt. The brute took advantage and kicked him hard in the stomach, sending him sprawling.
William, still chewing, glanced at her. "Told you the big guy would win."
Thalia ignored him.
She leaned forward, her heart pounding.
The swordsman coughed, blood on his lips, but he refused to stay down.
As the brute raised his axe for the killing blow, the swordsman moved—rolling onto his feet, dodging at the last second.
Then he struck.
With one fluid motion, he drove his sword deep into the brute's chest.
The larger man let out a wet gasp, his body shuddering. He dropped his axe, his hands clutching at the blade impaling him. The crowd fell silent as he collapsed to his knees, blood pooling around him.
Thalia held her breath.
The swordsman did not hesitate.
With a quick, merciless swing, he beheaded his fallen opponent.
The cheers erupted, deafening.
Thalia's heart raced, her face flushed with excitement.
This was more than just a tournament. This was power, skill, and glory. This was what it meant to be strong.
And in that moment, watching the victor stand tall, sword dripping with blood, something inside her shifted.
She knew what she wanted to be.
Not a princess locked away in a castle.
Not a future queen trapped by duty.
No.
She wanted to fight.
She wanted to stand in the arena, just like them.
She wanted to be a knight.
And no one—not her father, not the kingdom, not the gods themselves—would stop her.